Bronx Stroll: The Babe's Altar: Where a community, a family and a baseball legend come together.

On a late sunny morning last Sunday, I walked down Morris Ave. near 163rd St.–the heart of the South Bronx, just a few blocks east of Yankee Stadium. I stopped at the corner and looked into an oasis in this urban desert. A black, wrought-iron fence hems in a small park in front of St. Angela Merici church and grammar school. The trees are maple and oak, and the buildings are old and solid. They are no doubt the products of experienced masons–the brickwork is perfect. I walked into the church parking lot as the last cars were pulling out from the last morning mass.

Last fall, the church and school were burglarized four times. The parish was pillaged, and some $40,000 of computers, fax machines, gold chalices and other church ornaments were taken. That was $40,000 more than the church could afford to lose. After word got out, good-hearted New Yorkers rallied to aid the congregation. Even the Yankees–maybe the most penurious team in the city–chipped in to help the community get back on its feet. Through collecting alms and holding bake sales, enough money was raised to repair the looters’ damage, as well as put up floodlights and install metal gates and an alarm system. Most of the equipment and church vestments were replaced, and the church survived.

My father grew up in this parish, and the place was always dear for him. Since the Sullivans had come over from Ireland–my great- grandfather Eugene led the charge to Amerikay in the 1880s–this was their home. My father loved to tell us about watching Babe Ruth at mass, and legend has it that the Babe donated the altar.

When I walked into the dark church, a small, lithe man met me. Father Peter Mushi shook my hand, and with a beatific smile told me how he wound up in the Bronx.

"I am from Tanzania," he began, "and have been at this parish for the last three years. I love this parish. It reminds me of Africa. Here the people have so many problems... so many. Here you begin from point zero."

Mushi led me to a magnificent marble altar and showed me a dark brass plaque on its side of the altar. There are some 50 names on it, but he ran his finger over one: Mr. & Mrs. George "Babe" Ruth. Ruth and his wife were only two of the donors; the others have been forgotten.

"See, that is how this parish came to be. One donation at a time. There is a great history here and people still come back. It has been here since 1899, and this was always the home of the poor."

I asked if any Yankees walk down the hill for a visit. He laughed, and shook his head. "No, but I’m looking to hook up with the Yankees… They could work more with the neighborhood. A lot of Yankees are Dominicans, and that is what this parish is mostly. If they would come here for one day and show the people that there is hope and raise some money for the school…One day, one visit is all we would need."

Mushi paused, took a breath, then continued: "This is a very poor parish. This may be the poorest district in the nation. The poor begin here. They learn how to move on. From here they learn to be Americans."

Mushi told me his congregation is 70 percent Latino. The rest are black or white, still hanging on.

"We have a number of Anglos who still come here and live around the area. Here is one."

An older white man walked up and told the priest he had checked around and all was secure.

I asked Mushi about the burglaries. He told me that no one has been arrested, but since the alarm system was installed, the break-ins have stopped. He showed me the doors and windows that had been busted down and then repaired. The donations helped, but St. Angela Merici is just hanging on.

"We operate on a very tight budget. Very tight. The budget is what keeps me up at night. It is hard to make the bills at the end of every month."

When Mushi stopped to talk with some parishioners, I took a closer look above the altar, where a stained-glass window lets in enough light to give the cathedral a soft glow. I come from the school that says a house of worship should be ornate. None of that wayward pilgrim stuff for me. Show the poor that there is more to life than poverty. Let them bathe in the glow of finer things. It’s good for the soul.

Father Mushi joined me. "Come, let me show you Angela," he said, and led me to a statue of the saint in the lobby of the school. Down the hallway, there’s a photo of the class of 1942. The faces are all Irish. The boys are dressed in a military-like uniform; the girls wear prim dresses. Mushi stopped in front of the icon of a woman pointing down to a scroll in the hands of a young girl.

"Saint Angela’s mission in life was that poor children should get a good education, and that is our promise. We have 560 children in the grammar school, and the tuition is $2200 a year. This school is the only choice for the people who live around here. The public schools in the area are not good, so this is it for them. They need this school."

I thanked Mushi for the tour, but before I could leave, he led me back into the church and up the stairs to the altar.

"Look again at the names. Take your time."

I strained to read the names, but it was too dark. I pulled out a Bic lighter and scrolled down. A few names under Babe Ruth: Mr. & Mrs. Eugene Sullivan.

My great-qgrandfather and grandmother.

I looked over at Mushi, and he smiled. I looked back at the names and said a silent prayer to the man and woman I never met. The man and woman who gave me the gift of America.

I wondered what Eugene’s immigrant eyes would make of this small African priest and St. Angela Merici in the year 2003. Maybe it’s not so different, really. I bet he’d be pleased that his name and the altar are still there, up in the Bronx, just like he left them all those years ago.